


Christmas Eve in Belgravia

by DonnesCafe



Series: Christmas Visitations with Wedding Interludes [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherhood, Champagne, Christmas Eve, F/M, Holidays, Love, M/M, carols, handsome men in formal wear, let them be happy, mummers, violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 10:33:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1425328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnesCafe/pseuds/DonnesCafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas Eve and Mycroft's party is underway. He's nervous about that announcement, poor baby. Let the revels begin...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Eve in Belgravia

_God bless the master of this house_  
_With happiness besides...._  


_God bless your house, your children too,_  
_Your cattle and your store;_  
_The Lord increase you day by day,_  
_And give you more and more._  


~~ "A Sussex Mummers Carol," trad., _English Traditional Songs and Carols_ (1908) 

~~~~~ 

Mycroft was nervous. Most of the guests had arrived. Those staying overnight were safely bestowed in their rooms, and everyone was changing for cocktails. He looked in the mirror and straightened the subdued but celebratory tartan bow tie, smoothed the already smooth shawl collar of his tux, and frowned at the frown line persisting between his brows. 

Greg appeared beside him in the mirror, reflected resplendently inside the baroque, antique frame. Close-fitting tux, black bow tie, and a discrete pewter-colored cummerbund that picked up the highlights in his salt and pepper hair. 

Mycroft assessed him without turning around. “You are devastatingly handsome, my dear.” 

A crooked smile from the man behind him. “Well, I clean up well. Especially in a bespoke penguin suit. You’re worried, aren’t you?” 

Mycroft turned around then. “Maybe I made the wrong choice. To spring it on them like this. Sherlock, especially. He….” 

Lestrade stepped in close, pulled Mycroft’s head down, and gave him a long, slow kiss. Mycroft sighed, folded Greg in his arms, and held him close for a long moment. 

Lestrade stepped back, reached up and straightened Mycroft’s tie, and smiled. “Look, Sherlock may get his knickers in a twist. He’ll come around. And nothing anyone says or does will make a difference in the end. Trust me. Trust us.” 

“I do,” said Mycroft. He savored the layers in those two words. 

~~~~~ 

Sherlock was nervous. Janine had refused his offers to come and drive her up from Sussex or to meet her at the Knightsbridge tube station. Mycroft was sending a car to Sussex for her, she had explained. She had already gone upstairs to change when he arrived. By the time he left Janine’s Sussex cottage, they had reached a sort of friendly equilibrium. Why was he nervous? He looked at himself in the mirror, feeling small and surprisingly uncertain in the cavernous room that Ferris, Mycroft’s butler, had assigned him. Four-poster bed with wine-colored brocade hangings like something Ebenezer Scrooge would have slept in, fireplace with a stone-carved surround, dark wood paneling. Quite the house-holder, Mycroft. He twitched out the snowy white cuffs of his shirt and looked at his strictly black and white image in the glass. The specter at the feast? He was terrible at this sort of thing. People, social chit-chat. Mingling. He had delayed as long as he could. He turned and headed toward the two-story long-gallery. 

He turned the corner at the top of the stairs and looked down. It was a ridiculous room. Stained glass windows, black and white marble floors, antique paneling worth more than most houses. Armor, swords. White candles lit in brass candleholders in each window embrasure. Ladies in long dresses, men in black tie. They were his friends and family, and they looked quite splendid. He stepped back into the shadows to savor the sight for a moment before he went down. He thought back to the times when he was almost certain he would not see any of them, ever again. Lestrade in a tux, looking relaxed and handsome. His father, distinguished as always. Mycroft impeccable and expensive as usual. He smiled as Mary, lovely in violet silk, adjusted John’s tie. His mother talking animatedly to Mrs. Hudson, both in long, dark velvet. Molly looked very pretty in dark green brocade, her hair loose and curled and with something sparkling around her neck. Janine looked up suddenly and smiled at him. He stepped out of the shadows and went down. 

“You look beautiful,” he said, sincerely. Long, close-fitting strapless gown. Deep burgundy color. Hair caught back in an intricate, scrolled clasp. Simple, elegant. 

“So do you, I must say." She took in the elegant dinner jacket, knife-edge pleated shirt, black tie. Suited him. Her eyes sparkled as she leaned forward to kiss his cheek. “Drink?” he asked. She nodded. He went to the lavish cocktail buffet laid out along one wall and brought back two glasses of champagne. 

They wandered over to Lestrade. “Merry Christmas, Greg,” said Sherlock, slightly emphasizing the name. 

Lestrade smiled. “And to you both. Cheers.” They drank. Sherlock looked around. “I thought you were bringing a date.” 

Lestrade shrugged. “Oh, well, you know….,” He counted on Sherlock’s newly-budding sensitivity to his fellow humans and Lestrades’ history with women to prevent further questions. It worked. He found it hard to keep a straight face. 

Sherlock found the mingling surprisingly pleasant, until a fine-boned, elegantly-dressed man was ushered in. He heard him say, “Mycroft, so sorry to be late. Got held up with… well, you know.” 

“Not at all, Jasper. I know exactly. Let me introduce you to Miss Hooper first.” Ah. So this was Freddy Parkington’s younger brother. His eyes narrowed. Straw-blond hair, late thirties, narrow aristocratic nose, pale. In good shape, but too much time in the lab. Shy smile, Oxbridge. Rich as Croesus, even if he was the second son. 

“Stop it, Sherl.” Janine poked him. 

“Stop what?” 

“You’re deducing him. You’re looking at him like he’s a suspect. Or something in a petri dish. You leave them alone.” 

“I don’t know what you mean, Ms. Brady,” he said, but he smiled. 

They ate fresh oysters and caviar and delicate gougères and drank champagne and mingled. He caught up with John and Mary and got the latest news on the baby. Little Shae Martha was upstairs with the nanny Mycroft had procured for the holiday. He had a surprisingly unfraught chat with his parents and introduced them to Janine. He left her talking with them about village life. He circulated over to Mycroft. 

“Isn’t he a bit effete for our Molly? Overbred?” he asked. 

“Too fair and Mayfair, you think?” 

“What?” 

“Oh, really, Sherlock, your cultural education is appalling. Fair and Mayfair? Lord Peter Wimsey?” 

Sherlock looked blank. Mycroft sighed. “Never mind. No, he is not effete. He rowed for Oxford, breeds his own horses, and is almost as intelligent as you are. Though not quite. Enough to be going on with, though.” They both contemplated Molly and Jasper who were standing together, laughing. 

“Hmm,” said Sherlock. 

Mycroft nodded toward Janine and their parents. “They seem to be getting on.” 

“Hmm,” said Sherlock. Mycroft smiled. 

He caught Greg’s eye and nodded slightly. They both took deep breaths. Mycroft strolled toward the buffet table, Greg following close behind. Mycroft picked up one of the monogrammed silver spoons and delicately struck his Waterford champagne glass three times. The small, clear tones sounded clearly through the room, and silence gradually fell. Everyone turned toward them. 

“Happy Christmas Eve, everyone. I am delighted to welcome you all. Inspector Lestrade and I have an announcement we would like to make.” 

We. Sherlock’s eyes went wide. He had been unbelievably slow. How had he not known? 

Mycroft held out his hand. Greg smiled and took it. “Inspector Lestrade and I are in love.” He said it simply and sweetly. There were happy murmurings among the onlookers. Mycroft smiled in such an unguarded way that Lestrade suddenly thought his heart would break with happiness. If that made sense. “We plan to have a civil marriage soon, and a real wedding as soon as the Church of England comes to its senses.” 

The room erupted in well-wishes, hugs, and laughter. Mr. Holmes embraced them both, tears in his eyes. Mrs. Holmes kept saying, “Oh, Mikey. I’m so happy. Just so happy for you both.” Everyone got more champagne. Then Mycroft looked around and realized that Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. 

He leaned over and said softly, “Greg, I have to find him, have to explain….” 

“No,” Lestrade looked a bit grim. “Let me talk to him.” He set his champagne class down very carefully on a side table. He didn’t want to shatter it. He walked swiftly out of the room. 

~~~~~ 

He found Sherlock out in the back garden, sitting on a stone bench. It was cold and clear. The only lights were some small fairy lights lining the paths and the lights from the windows to the gallery. Sherlock didn’t look at him. 

“You couldn’t wish us happy, you bastard?” Lestrade tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “After all we’ve been through together?” 

“I don’t want him to hurt you. You don’t know what he is. He’s cold. He’s dangerous.” 

“Actually, Sherlock, I think I do know him. Look, I don’t know everything that’s between you. I have brothers, and I know how… skewed it can get. But I think it’s you who doesn’t really see what he is. You’ve let an image of him you built up as a child blind you to the evidence. And all the times you were using. If you'll remember, I was there, too. I saw how much he cared." 

Sherlock sighed. "I'm sorry for what I put you both through." 

"I know you are. I would never bring it up, except I think there's so much history between you two that you can't see past it. Give me some credit. I know he’s dangerous. He has to be cold sometimes. But that’s not all he is. If you're really honest with yourself, you'll admit that you know that, too. Sherlock, I love him.” 

He finally turned to look at Greg. He had been wrong about so many things. He entertained the possibility that he didn’t truly know Mycroft. “Then I wish you happy.” Greg looked at him. Sherlock wasn’t convinced, but he was trying. 

“Will you tell him that?” 

Sherlock didn't answer him directly. "I'll talk to him. Do you mind asking him to come out here?” Greg went back inside. A few minutes later, Mycroft came down the path holding a bottle of champagne and two glasses. 

He sat beside Sherlock. “This, little brother, is a special bottle. I’ve been waiting for a special occasion to open it. De Venoge Des Princes 1976, bottled the year you were born.” 

“I’m afraid, Mycroft. Greg is my friend. He’s not a goldfish for you to play with. I’m afraid he won’t be enough…. That you’ll hurt him.” 

“Sherlock, I love him. He's your friend, so you know that he is not to be underestimated. We’re happy together. I never expected to find that kind of happiness with anyone, but now that I have I understand what you were saying. I _was_ lonely. You were right. I don’t want to be isolated anymore. I love him. I won't hurt him if there is anything I can do to prevent it." 

He stopped and shivered dramatically. "Good god, it's cold out here. Sherlock, I love you, too. I always have. I’m sorry we never understood one another better. Do you think…. Do you think we could start again?” 

They both sat silent for long moments. Sherlock thought how many times he had been wrong about people, how he had misread those he cared about the most. He thought back over all the times that Mycroft had tried to help him, most often against his will. Thought about drugs and rebellion. He thought, not for the first time over the last several months, that it was time to grow up. 

“Yes, Mycroft, I think we can.” He took the bottle from his brother, popped the cork. A bit of the foam got on Mycroft’s immaculate right sleeve. 

Sherlock reached into the inner pocket of his dinner jacket and pulled out a handkerchief. He blotted the champagne on Mycroft's sleeve carefully. He left his hand resting on his brother's arm. 

"What happened to 'caring is not an advantage,' Mycroft?" he asked softly. 

Mycroft put a hand over his. "It is never an advantage for the work, Sherlock. But are we only 'slaves of duty'?" 

"What?" Sherlock heard in quotation marks, but couldn't place the source. 

"Did I truly fail your cultural education so comprehensively? We're taking you and Janine to D'Oyly Carte this spring. They're doing _Pirates_." 

"You're assuming rather a lot," said Sherlock, but without heat. 

"Balance of probabilities, little brother. I trust you to deduce the best path for you both. But no matter what we choose, all lives end. All hearts are broken in the end. So will ours be, but it is far better than the alternative." 

They heard Greg crunching down the pea-gravel path. He, sensibly, had a coat on. They stood to meet him. He thrust their coats at them. "You're both idiots, you know that?" He took a champagne flute out of his pocket and held it out. "All sorted?" 

Sherlock poured. "All sorted. Health, happiness, long life," he said. The three glasses touched, and a tiny chime sounded in the frosty air. They drank, then Sherlock and Mycroft set down their glasses on the bench and put on their coats. They then proceeded to drink the whole bottle of the '76. 

~~~~~ 

Sherlock had underestimated his brother. Not only were there multiple trees and a yule log, there were mummers after dinner. Where Mycroft had found them, heaven only knew. They were a small troupe, beautifully costumed. Everyone laughed and clapped at the antics of St. George and the dragon. When St. George killed the dragon, Sherlock looked over to Mycroft, who smiled and inclined his head toward him in the slightest of bows. When the Turk killed the good knight, and the traditional Quack Doctor was needed to resurrect St. George with his magic potion, cries of “John, John” rippled through the audience. Stomping ensued. The mummers called for John Watson to come up, assume the doctor’s mask, and preside over the climax of the play by administering the potion. John good-naturedly played along. More stomping, laughter, applause. Mycroft’s party seemed to be forming into a rousing success. 

After the play, there was desert and dancing in the drawing room. Cole Porter on the sound system. Sherlock finally got to dance with Janine. As he remembered, it felt natural. He put his face down lightly into her soft hair and held her a carefully-judged fraction closer. He thought about the woman in his arms and about the future. He would be careful. No matter how the future unfolded, he would do his best not to hurt her again. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mycroft dancing with Greg. That, too, seemed natural. 

Just before midnight, snow began to fall lightly past the windows. Mycroft asked his father to read the Christmas story from the book of Luke. Sherlock thought again about grace as he looked from face to face. It didn’t seem to matter that he didn’t believe the story. He believed in the love of the people around him. After his father finished reading, Sherlock took the violin out of its case. He stood, slightly turned away from everyone. Might get emotional. “God Rest Ye Merry” for John, “Wexford Carol” for Janine, “What Child” for Mary, “Silent Night.” Voices rose softly, twined around him, and held.


End file.
